


it is so quite new a thing

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, IN SHORT bellamy is super tactile and clarke is 100 percent here for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:10:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6503965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're a thing now. They're <i>together</i>. </p>
<p>And Clarke is finding out that sex aside, there's one other difference between friend-Bellamy and boyfriend-Bellamy that she really, really, <i>really</i> enjoys. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, the one where Bellamy has a thing for skin-on-skin contact UNDER CLOTHES.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it is so quite new a thing

**Author's Note:**

> i really love it when inspiration strikes with no concern for what hour of the night it is.
> 
>  
> 
> (... that came out a lot more sarcastic than i'd originally intended, which is none at all.)

 

i like my body when it is with your  
body. It is so quite new a thing.  
Muscles better and nerves more.  
i like your body.  i like what it does,  
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine  
of your body and its bones,and the trembling  
-firm-smooth ness and which i will  
again and again and again  
kiss [...]

 

\- E. E. Cummings,  _i like my body when it is with your_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke first notices it about three weeks into their relationship.

 

It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out that Bellamy Blake is a tactile person. He raised Octavia, for one — and that girl knows how to give a good, solid, A+ hug. He and Miller have been greeting each other with bro-y, chest bumping, one-armed embraces for as long as both of them can remember. He’s never seemed to mind when Jasper or Raven nudge him in the arm or the ribs with their signature elbow jabs, one overexcited, the other teasing. Even before they were dating, Clarke’s always been partial to his style of hugging. He hugs like he does everything else — with both hands, throwing all of himself into it with single-minded focus. Just two years ago, one too many vodka tonics at Bellamy’s birthday shindig had persuaded her that it would be a brilliant idea to go up to him and tell him _“it’s like people hug with their arms, but you hugs it with your heart”_. (It was three full months before he’d let that one go.)

 

It’s noticeable even without other people around, if she’s being finicky about it. He’s constantly folding his arms across his broad chest, or raking through the tangled mess of curls all over his head, or scrubbing at his face in exhaustion or exasperation. He’s especially got a thing for absentmindedly winding his fists in the hem of his shirt while splayed out on the couch watching TV, the material shifting slightly as his thumbs move in repetitive windshield wiper motions on the skin just above the waistband of his gym shorts. The man can’t seem to go five minutes without engaging in some kind of skin-on-skin contact, with or without other people present.

 

Not that she’s complaining, of course.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

In all honesty, she’s never been big on skinship (as Raven calls it). Not with her hook-ups — outside of the actual sex, that is. Not even with Lexa or Finn — and either relationship had been as serious as she’d gotten, ever. She’s a willing recipient when her friends initiate hugs and other physical expressions of affection, but she’s not exactly one to start a cuddle-fest.

 

Which is why it’d been slightly unsettling to realise how completely _un_ settled she is by Bellamy’s tactility. Even before they were together, she’d never tensed up at the weight of his hand on her waist — an automatic reaction Finn had always commented on with mild curiosity. (Lexa had never seemed to notice much; she hadn’t been too big a fan of unnecessary physical contact either.) Bellamy sliding into the seat next to hers and immediately stretching an arm out over the back of the booth or chair had never elicited so much as an involuntary, fleeting flinch from her. Over time, she’d even found herself leaning into his space, welcoming the awareness of him close by, settling into his proximity.

 

But all that was before.

 

They’re a thing now. They’re _together_.

 

And Clarke is finding out that sex aside, there’s one other difference between friend-Bellamy and boyfriend-Bellamy that she really, really, _really_ enjoys.

 

She first notices it when they meet up at the bar after work. She runs into Miller on her way in, and they walk in together as Miller tells her about his new assigned partner at the precinct. Bellamy stands up when he sees them approaching the table he and Monty have commandeered, grinning as he reaches out to envelope Clarke in a hug. Her arms instantly go around him in return, but she blinks when she registers familiar, calloused fingers slipping under the hem of her button-down shirt to press into the skin of her lower back. She casts him an amused glance after they settle into their seats, but the smile he gives her in return is happy and oblivious. Bellamy’s warm gaze returns to Miller as he continues with updates on his new partner, and Clarke shakes her head slightly, a fond smile tugging at her lips as she reaches for the drink already waiting for her on the table.

 

She notices it again the next day, when they’re walking home from dinner with Octavia and Lincoln. They’re holding hands as they navigate the pavement, as usual. But she’s suddenly aware of the way his thumb is stroking upward and into the long sleeve of her dress, tracing up and down the round knob of bone where her wrist meets her palm. She smiles, realising that it’s not the first time he’s done it; it’s just the first time she’s noticed.

 

For the rest of the week, she’s suddenly unable to stop noticing it.

 

His fingers crook into the waistband of her sleep shorts when they’re curled up together on the couch after dinner, pressing against the bare skin of her hip while they watch _Catastrophe_.

 

His arm winds around her middle when they go to bed, but his hand ducks under her oversized T-shirt (an indefinite loan from him) to fan out over her belly.

 

On Rock Band night at Raven and Miller’s, she props her bare feet up on his lap, and his hands automatically move to massage at her arches, fingers slipping under the hem of her jeans to curl lightly over her ankle.

 

Even when they’re at the store trying to decide on which flavour Lay’s to buy, his hand is rubbing absently over the back of her neck as he leans over her shoulder to weigh in on her final two options, seemingly unaware of the way his own fingers work their way under her hair and into the collar of her shirt, caressing the nape of her neck without a barrier of cotton getting in the way.

 

They’ve only been together a few weeks, and she can’t even remember what it feels like to go without direct Bellamy contact for more than twenty-four hours.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Hey,” she starts conversationally as they unpack the takeout boxes they’d picked up on the way home. “Have you always done that touchy thing with your girlfriends?”

 

He glances at her over a steaming box of fried rice, a crease etched into his forehead. “What touchy thing?”

 

She shrugs, working a few pot stickers out of a container and onto his plate. “You know. That thing where you decide clothes are irrelevant.” She moves on to her own plate, blinking at his persisting expression of incomprehension. “In case you didn’t know, you have a thing for touching me.”

 

“I know,” he responds dryly, serving her a helping of rice. “It’s kind of a big part of why we’re dating.”

 

“No, not just the usual Bellamy-is-tactile stuff,” she continues, gesticulating with the open container of egg rolls. “I mean, like, _under_ clothing.” She rolls her eyes at his exaggerated smirk. “Not _that_ kind of under-the-clothes touching.”

 

“Upon my word,” he half-gasps with widened eyes, one hand pressed to his chest. “How _dare_ you.”

 

“Stop,” she says, jabbing him in the shoulder with her plastic-wrapped chopsticks. “You know what? I’ll just show you when it happens.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It takes about thirty seconds after they collapse onto the couch in a bloated haze. His arm automatically goes around her to pull her into his side, and she sighs contentedly as her head drops onto his chest. She suddenly cries out in triumph, jerking upright as her hand flies to cover his.

 

“Aha! There, you see?”

 

He blinks at her in bewilderment, looking down to where his hand has half-pushed its way under the hem of her tank top, now trapped against her bare hip by hers.

 

“See… what?”

 

She shifts half-excitedly against him, pushing herself to what’s almost a kneeling position on the couch. “You’re doing it again! The under-the-clothes touching thing.”

 

He glances down at his hand again. “Oh. That.”

 

“Yeah, _that_.” She grins down at him and releases his hand, her head cocked to the side. “What _is_ that about, anyway?”

 

He looks up at her, flexing his fingers over the skin of her waist. “I don’t know. Never realised I was doing it.”

 

Her brows lift in curiosity. “Seriously? You do it _all the time_. Didn't you do it with your exes too?”

 

He clears his throat, grip tightening reflexively on her hip. “Um. No. Don’t think so.”

 

She blinks, momentarily thrown. Of all the answers she’d anticipated, this hadn’t been one. “Oh. So… this isn’t a Bellamy thing?”

 

He laughs, looking up at her with rapidly darkening brown eyes as he winds both arms under her shirt and around her waist, pulling her to straddle him. “I think it’s more of a you thing, princess.”

 

“Me?” she asks with a frown, her hands instantly going around his neck. “But I don’t—” The rest of her sentence is cut off by an upward nudge of his hips into hers. Her gaze immediately darts down to his growing arousal. “ _Oh._ ”

 

“I honestly never noticed it till now,” Bellamy continues, dark gaze still trained on her face. “So I haven’t really put much thought into it. But if you’re looking for an answer, I’d say it’s probably because I’d spent too long trying to stop myself from touching you whenever I wanted to. Now that I can? Shit, Clarke,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling up his serious expression. “I guess I just can’t seem to get enou—”

 

She’s surging downward before he can finish, lips sealing over his with unrestrained fervour. His hands immediately tug her even closer, her thighs instinctively squeezing down on his narrow hips as she rocks into him.

 

They’re both breathless by the time she pulls away, foreheads pressed together.

 

“That’s a good answer,” she pants, hands fumbling to yank his shirt up and off.

 

“Yeah?” he asks with a grin, helping her to work the exceedingly stubborn article of clothing off. (It’s probably her overeager hands rather than the shirt itself. But still.)

 

“Fucking _great_ answer,” she says, throwing his shirt to the other end of the couch. “Now can we please get to some proper under-the-clothes touching?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Octavia calls them out on their _“seriously obscenely excessive”_ PDA the next day. “So says the one practically sitting on her boyfriend’s lap,” Bellamy retorts, his arm curling around his girlfriend’s waist.

 

Clarke’s grin stretches even wider at the feel of familiar, calloused fingers slipping just under the hem of her shirt to rest on the flushed skin of her hip.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you for reading my bellarke nonsense!! 
> 
> feel free to drop a kudos/comment because those REALLY make my day. i know, i'm easy.


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